


Gunmetal

by purplesunsets



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood and Gore, Drug Use, Friends to Lovers, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Manipulation, Mental Health Issues, Misunderstandings, Psychological Horror, Suicidal Thoughts, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:20:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28397574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplesunsets/pseuds/purplesunsets
Summary: “You care too much, Clay.” George whimpers as though it pains him. “You care too much about people that don’t even give a shit about you.”“Stop it.” Clay chokes as George’s hands close around his neck. He’s bigger and stronger than George, and yet he’s too weak to fight.“You need me, Clay.” George hisses. “Not the other way around.”“I’m sorry.” Clay sobs. “I promise, I only care about you.”“Show me.”
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 156





	Gunmetal

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the tags. Don’t read if you believe anything will be triggering. Hope you enjoy :)

“You’re not moving to England.” George scoffs and punches Clay in-game.

“I am. I’m serious, George.” Clay insists. He wears the key around his neck. It hangs heavy with promise on its leather cord.

The chat fills with a mix of excitement and wariness. He supposes they’re right to be distrustful after the whole vlog incident. But it’s real this time. All of his belongings have been neatly put into a dozen cardboard boxes. It’s somewhat sad, that his entire life can be packed away so easily, that there is so little that he actually cares about. He has seldom known stability in his life.

_“Sure.”_ George drawls, clearly not believing it. “What’s next? You’re gonna tell me you play golf in Scotland with Barack?”

“As in Obama? As if. That sounds more like Trump anyway.” Even though George is being mildly obnoxious, tender warmth still flares up within Clay’s heart. “I’m being serious. Why are you being so stubborn about this?”

“I’m not, I just know you.” George laughs. “And I know when you’re talking out your ass.”

Clay smirks. “I have your address. Let’s see who’s laughing when I show up at your house tomorrow.”

“Whatever, Clay.” George replies and Clay can picture the dumb expression on his face.

“Using my real name now, huh?” Clay rolls his eyes fondly. “I see how it is now.”

“What? You don’t like it when I call you that, _Clay?”_ George replies and Clay doesn’t even have to open George’s stream to know he’s wearing a stupid grin. 

“You’re such an ass sometimes.” Clay feigns annoyance. Secretly, George saying his name is one of the sweetest sounds he knows. Sometimes, he thinks about it would be like to hear his name come from kiss-swollen lips; would it be a breathy rasp or a carnal growl.

“But you love it.” 

“I do.” Clay whispers into his hand.

—

Considering he bought the place sight-unseen—beside photos—Clay is pleasantly surprised by it. On paper it had sounded great: a newly renovated townhouse, in an upscale area of London. In person, it’s even better. The interior is sleek and modern, while the exterior has the historical charm which he has only seen before in Brooklyn brownstones. It has a few awkward quirks, such as questionable wallpaper and pale green tiles in the bathroom, but it only adds to the appeal. Patches seems to like it too, and happily curls up on the couch as soon as she’s let out of her carrier. Clay soon joins her, surrounded by boxes that probably won’t get unpacked for another month.

The bulk of his furniture and belongings has yet to arrive, which makes the whole thing feel even more surreal. Even as he stands in his new living room, Clay still has difficulty processing that he actually lives here now. He’s always been impulsive, however, moving to another country is a new extreme for even him. But he was ready to get away from America, and has found something new yet oddly familiar. 

Though he’s not willing to admit it, part of him knows that George had some influence in his decision. It’s a scary thought knowing that he’d change his life for someone. It’s infatuation and it’s dangerous. Before he can dwell on this, he heads out the door and begins to walk to the train station, blanketed by humid fog. 

—

George’s house is nicer than Clay had expected. And bigger, too. It’s situated in a posh cul-de-sac and a black Range Rover is parked in the driveway. It looks expensive: from the planters filled with lush foliage and the ornate door at the top of a dozen stairs. Pride swells in Clay’s chest, knowing that in some way he has helped George earn his success.

Clay smiles to himself and rings the bell. Nearly ten minutes pass before George opens the door.

“What the literal fuck?” George barks in lieu of greeting. He has dark circles beneath his eyes and generally looks haggard. He seems incredibly pissed off by Clay’s presence and Clay immediately wishes he hadn’t come.

“Yeah.” Clay awkwardly rubs at the back of his neck, because the more he thinks about this, the crazier it feels. He’s standing on his best friend’s doorstep in England. He literally bought a house just to be near and George isn’t even happy to see him.

George doesn’t move to let him in, and instead remains standing in the doorway with his arms crossed. “What are you doing here?”

“I told you I’d be coming.” Clay chews the inside of his cheek. He thought his first time meeting George would be different. Instead, George is mad and Clay is in a foreign country all alone. 

“I thought you were joking.” George laughs but it sounds exasperated. “You can’t just show up at my house, without any warning. That’s not okay.” 

“It’s not?” Clay thinks back to the time Nick had showed up in an Uber at three AM outside his house on a Four Loko bender. This is tame in comparison. 

“I’m sorry, Clay. I’m really busy today.” George’s eyes are unfocused and he looks strung out. If Clay didn’t know better, he’d think George was intoxicated.

“You’re joking.” Clay’s mouth tastes like dread and there’s a pit in his stomach. He’s moved thousands of miles and George is _busy._

“Just…” George trails off and sighs, curt but apologetic. “Go home, Clay.”

Clay cries the entire ninety minute train ride back to London. He returns to his house and hates everything about it. His home is neither here nor in Florida. He has never known a home. It’s why he had decided to move in the first place. He was hoping he’d find his home somewhere else. Maybe with George. 

Clay supposes that he must be the problem. How could he not be, when he’s so unwanted? Some things never change.

—

“How was the move, dude? I’ll have to come visit you soon.” Nick grins into the camera and it makes Clay want to start crying all over again.

“It went well, I guess.” Clay shrugs.

“What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing.” Clay mumbles, rather unconvincingly.

“Don’t give me that bullshit, Clay.” Nick sighs. “I can tell something is bothering you.”

“Is George mad at me? Has he said anything to you?” 

_“Mad?”_ Nick frowns. “Not that I know of, why?”

“I surprised him at his house yesterday. He didn’t seem happy to see me.” 

“He was probably just shocked to see you. I knew you were serious about moving only because you had told me about the whole… _situation_.”

“Maybe.” Clay chews at his lip nervously. “It just seemed like more than that. He was angry, and he looked sick _.”_

“You’re reading too much into it. He probably just missed his nap or something. You know how much of a bitch-baby he turns into when he’s tired.” Nick chuckles.

“It was weird, though. I don’t get why he was like that.” Clay still feels nauseous just thinking about it.

“George has the emotional capacity of a bag of dicks. Give him a call, he was probably just busy with his side job or something.”

“Side job?” Clay echoes and feels heat rush to his cheeks that burns with betrayal. “He’s never mentioned anything like that to me.”

“I honestly don’t know much about it either. I think it has something to do with programming, but that’s about it. George always shuts down when I ask more. I can’t tell if he’s embarrassed or doing top-secret working for Elizabeth shit.”

“He’s definitely not working for the fucking Queen.” Clay mumbles, though part of him feels betrayed that George told Nick about his job. Clay knows he’s not entitled to know everything about George’s life, but they’re supposed to be best friends. “Kind of sus, though.”

“Tell me about it.” Nick trails off. “Just be careful, okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t have a good feeling about this move, you know that.” Nick replies tersely.

“You never have a good feeling about anything.” Clay scoffs.

“This is different. The vibes have been off with George lately.”

“You’ve been smoking too much weed, Nick. It’s making you paranoid.” 

“I’m not joking around, Clay.” Nick snaps, but immediately softens. “Listen, I have to go. But stay safe, okay?”

Clay locks his jaw and says, “I will.”

—

It’s nine in the morning when George shows up at his house with a large pizza and a bouquet of yellow roses. It’s the type of endearing shit out of a whitewashed heterosexual Netflix rom-com. It makes Clay want to hold George close until they’re whole again.

“George?” Clay tries not to let his jaw hit the floor. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m not good at apologies, but I know I was really rude to you the other day. I’m sorry. You just caught me while I was in the middle of something important.” George blurts.

“It’s okay. I’m sorry, too. I should’ve called.” 

“Yeah. You should’ve. Don’t pull this shit again, okay?” George laughs, but there’s something mean about it. He shoves the flowers and pizza into Clays arms roughly.

“Would you like to come in?” Clay offers. “I’ll give you the grand tour.”

George smiles at him—it’s genuine and bright, it’s the man that Clay has spent hours on call with into the early hours of dawn. “I’d love that.”

Clay moves aside and motions for George to follow. 

“Well, this is the kitchen.” Clay sets the items in his arms down on the counter. “Not that I don’t appreciate it, but what’s with the flowers?”

“Shut up.” George grumbles. “A Buzzfeed article said it would be good.”

“I’m sure.” Clay grins and gestures widely. “Well, what do you think of the place so far?”

“You have a nice house, Clay. It’s more than the bachelor pad I was expecting.” George runs his hand appreciatively along the marble countertop. “Must’ve cost a fortune.”

Clay shrugs. “Less than you’d expect. Come on, you gotta see the living room, the wallpaper is hideous. It’s like my grandma’s house.”

The wallpaper _is_ hideous. It has a pattern of good leaf and little illustrations of what looks like British Revolutionary War soldiers dotted across it, which seems kind of dumb to Clay, considering the British lost the war. Its gaudiness sticks out poorly amongst the otherwise modern interior.

“It’s not that bad.” George rolls his eyes and sits down on the couch. “You bought a rich-person house, what did you expect?”

“That’s fair.” 

“You box?”

“How’d you know?” Clay laughs nervously. 

“You literally have a punching bag set up in your living room, idiot.” George laughs. “I take back what I said before, this _is_ a bachelor pad.”

“Yeah. Right.” Clay says awkwardly. He feels uneasy, like he’s forgetting something. He shouldn’t, because George is clearly making an effort to make up for yesterday, but something feels off.

“I still can’t believe you’re actually here. What the hell, Clay?” George smiles good-naturedly.

“Me either. It was a spur of the moment thing, but Nick really helped me make the final decision.” Clay admits and joins George on the couch. Before they can sink into silence, Clay asks, “You mentioned you were busy yesterday?”

“Yeah, on the side I do corporate programming for some big wigs in London. I was in a meeting when you showed up.” George answers, somewhat sheepishly.

“Really? Streaming doesn’t pay enough?” Clay frowns. He has no reason to not believe George, but part of him feels like George is lying. He supposes this is the product of being manipulated by loved ones all his life.

“It does. I just know that it won’t last forever and I need to start building my resume in more stable fields while I have the time and resources to.” George shrugs. “I have the degree, so might at well use it.”

“Oh. That makes sense.” Clay says dumbly. And it does make sense, which is why it feels fake.

“Yeah, I just don’t talk about it much, since I don’t want people to feel that I’m exploiting the system, or that I’m diminishing the efforts of those who plan to make streaming a permanent career.”

“But you know I wouldn’t feel that way. So why haven’t you told me until now.”

“No, I’ve definitely told you.” George frowns. “You don’t remember?”

“Not really.” Clay feels guilt grip his heart. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. You’ve always been forgetful.” George waves his hand dismissively and cracks a small—but understanding—smile.

Clay bites his tongue. Nick already knew, so it makes sense that Clay would’ve also been told at some point before. Years from his childhood are absent from his memory, so he supposes it’s logical that he’d lose moments from his adulthood, too.

“Why don’t we have the apology-pizza before it gets cold?” George interrupts Clay’s thoughts and leaves for the kitchen before Clay can dwell on the past any further.

“Yeah.” Clay answers, mouth dry with unexplainable dread. George has been nothing but his regular self. Clay has no reason to feel so uneasy.

It’s not until later Clay realizes he doesn’t remember if he told George his address. He’s doubtful that he did, but his memory has always been bad.

—

“Running makes you looks suspicious, Clay.” His sister has always been rather blunt. 

“I didn’t call you for you to berate me.” Clay snaps. “You should know better than anyone why I left.” 

“I’m just trying to look out for you. The police haven’t closed the case yet, you’re not a suspect now, but you could be.”

“Yeah, I know.” Clay murmurs. It’s moments like these that he realizes just how much his sister has matured over the past few years. 

“Are you coming to her funeral at least? It might help you clear your name.” 

“I…can’t. I’m sorry.” 

“Wow, leaving me to deal with it, huh? Making me bury Mom on my own. I should’ve known.” She sighs. “She hurt me, too, you know.”

“Yeah. Trust me, I get it.” 

“I don’t think you do. If you did, you’d be here with me in Florida.”

“I’m still not sure why this even involves me anymore. The police have the phone records and everything.” Clay answers. “It’s plain to see that I’m innocent.”

“You were the one she called. No one understands why she did, but it looks bad for you.” 

“Isn’t the case closed? Autopsy report deemed it suicide, no?” Clay swallows, but the acrid flavor of uncertainty lingers on his tongue. “She had been threatening to kill herself for years, it’s not like it was out of the blue.”

“No one besides us knows that. Even in her grave, she’s managing to manipulate our entire family.” The ragged sound of breathing crackles in the speaker. “I’m still sorry that you had to take the fall for it. It wasn’t your fault she killed herself.”

“You think I don’t know that? I don’t need your validation.” Clay snarls. “I shouldn’t need to remind you that I don’t give a fuck about what our family thinks of me.”

“I’m only trying to warn you of what’s to come. I’d really appreciate it if you’d _try_ to listen.”

“I’m not diminishing what you went through, but do you have any idea how much she abused me?” Clay scoffs. 

“She’s dead. You need to get over it, Clay.” 

“Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?” He snarks. 

“Are you calling me a narcissist?” 

“You said it, not me.” Clay bites.

“Wow.” She deadpans. “This is what I get for caring about you. I’m the only one in the family that still gives a shit, and this is what fucking I get.”

“You keep trying to imply that I’m to blame for Mom’s suicide. You’re manipulating me.”

“That’s literally not what I’m doing here. I’m trying to protect you. I’m just asking for some support in return.” 

“You’ve never been here for me if there’s not something in it for you. You’re just as selfish as she was.” Clay sneers. 

“You know what? Fuck you. I don’t have to do this.” She spits. “If you think I’m blaming you, then maybe it really is your fault.”

Seething remarks die in Clay’s throat when she hangs up, and he gets the feeling that he’s just made a terrible mistake. 

—

“Tell me you love me.” Clay says, partly because he wants to be annoying, partly because he just wants to hear it. He knows he shouldn’t be streaming right now, but needs to feel loved, he needs to feel something.

“What? No, that’s weird.” George laughs, but it's strained and forced. “We’re in the middle of a stream.”

“So what? Just say it, _please.”_ Clay repeats and curses himself for sounding so desperate. He wonders if George can hear it in his voice, that he’s not okay tonight. He clears his throat and tries to imitate normalcy, “Come on. I love you. Just say it back.”

“Why should I?” George replies teasingly. This is the game they always play, but it’s higher stakes than usual to Clay. “I’d be calling you s-i-m-p right now if it didn’t violate TOS.”

“I’ll gift you fifty subs.” Clay answers without hesitation and hopes he isn’t getting on George’s nerves. He’s on the verge of tears and is willing to throw his money at George if it means feeling cared for.

“Stop it, Clay.” George says, a cold edge to his voice that wasn’t there before, something cruel in the chuckle he huffs out. 

“Right. Sorry.” Clay mumbles. “I’m sorry for being annoying.” He’s feeling painfully vindictive. It’s not beneath him to manipulate the words out of George. 

“It’s fine.” George sighs. “Listen, I’m actually pretty tired, I’m going to head off now.”

“Okay.” Clay answers absentmindedly, consumed by remorse. It feels like coming home. “Bye.”

“We should meet up again soon, though.” George adds on, probably because Clay has guilt tripped him into pity. 

Clay barely hears him, shaken out his stupor by the familiar sound of the call muting. Wordlessly he ends his stream before he can start crying. This will already end up trending without any additional hysterics. Thoughts lurking in the darkest part of his mind begs to see him bleed. Old scars burn fresh and he can’t remember how to breathe. 

Clumsily, Clay fumbles with the latch to his balcony and stumbles outside. Cold air fills his lungs and his throat tastes slick with blood. The water beneath his feet is choppy in the dim glow of night. It’s dangerous yet inviting. With near fondness, he recalls what it felt like to almost drown as a child. When his mother held his frail body beneath the surface of the cloudy tub water. It was euphoric, in a way that is shameful to admit. Part of him misses it. Not the drowning, but the gentle pain it brought. 

Blades held in the grubby, uncoordinated hands of a child. Pale, unmarked skin marred by actions dictated by big-boy feelings. Remembering buried memories hurts in a uniquely exquisite way. One that is horrible and inviting all at once. He wonders what would happen, if he were to bleed out on his balcony, or let the murky English water consume him. Briefly, he considers what it would be like to skin himself alive. Would it be like removing the thin peel of an apple, or ridding an orange of its leathery rind? Would he finally be loved then? Somehow, despite years of abuse, his mother doesn’t seem so bad. Maybe she just needed to feel loved, too.

“Shut up.” Clay whispers, though he’s not sure who he’s speaking to. He immediately feels incredibly pathetic. If only George could see him now: broken and spiteful. 

He picks up the small box of cigarettes from the wicker table. The wind tickles his hair almost chidingly. He tells the cloudy sky that he’ll quit tomorrow. He holds the cigarette between his lips and shakily presses down on the lighter. The flame dances inches away from his face, it’s warmth licking at the tip of his nose. 

Clay feels warm smoke rush into his chest and he never wants to let it go. He holds it there until he’s spluttering and retching over the railing of his porch. He holds onto the delightful heat of feeling whole, no matter how painful it is. It’s his molasses and maple—sweet and sorrowful. 

“Fuck.” Clay huffs, when he hears the distant sound of his ringtone from inside. Before he can do something incredibly stupid, like start eating cigarettes from the box like hot cheetos or launch himself over the railing, he leaves the balcony. His phone is sitting face-up on the couch, a notification lighting up its screen. It’s a message from George. It reads, ‘ _Call me ASAP.’_

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t want anyone to think I’m stigmatizing NPD in this. This is just to demonstrate one experience of how it feels to be raised by a narcissistic mother. 
> 
> This could definitely use more revising and I’m not even completely sure where I’m going with it. But one of the main criticisms I got on my last work really stuck with me; formatting and plot holes. And they’re right, I tend to leave a lot unsaid and I also tend to not write in traditional paragraph style. I’ll try to do better.
> 
> I’m sitting on a few wips: vampire dnf au, a one(?) shot of Clay’s perspective in Coming Undone, and something horribly disturbing so yeah.
> 
> Lastly this title might not stay idk lol
> 
> Thank you for all the support on my works! It means so much to me :)


End file.
